


you took my soul and wiped it clean

by decideophobia



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Post-Possession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-02-09 12:43:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18638368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decideophobia/pseuds/decideophobia
Summary: Q, however, has stayed away from him since the third time Eliot had jerked violently at his touch. Eliot hates everything about this, most of all the expression on Q’s face. How do you tell the man you love that you crave him, ache for him,lovehim when it melts your skin whenever he touches you? How do you tell him, and make himbelieveyou?





	you took my soul and wiped it clean

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a prompt from tumblr, and it got, as per usual, out of hand a little.
> 
>  
> 
> **21\. “We’re in the middle of a thunderstorm and you wanna stop and feel the rain?”**
> 
>  
> 
> Also, I was listening to this absolutely gorgeous cover of [All I Want](https://open.spotify.com/track/2bPjLHyIEq6suQmb32SGfa) while writing this. Please give it a listen, it's so lovely.
> 
> This is unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine.

Eliot didn’t think that coming back into his own body would feel that strange. Yet, sometimes it still feels as if he’s just off about some movement; sensations don’t seem to feel right; the world is either too loud, too quiet, too dull, too saturated, too crowded, too empty. 

Sometimes touches leave his skin crawling, set him on fire and burn away all his protective layers until only his raw, open nerve endings are exposed to the air. Noises pierce his ear drums, and the world is drowned out in a ringing; or, even worse, when suddenly, everything just falls silent, as if someone had just turned off the sound, and Eliot can’t hear; doesn’t hear Margo saying his name.

Sometimes the world seems so big he thinks he’s going to unravel. No pressure to hold the pieces of him together. Other times, it’s as if he’s suffocating; lungs too small to hold any air; pieces of him falling from his hands, cracking open on the floor, lost forever.

Cooking, Eliot finds out, about a week after he’s back, helps. He can zero in on the feeling of the ingredients in his hands, the texture of vegetables or meat; the weight of the knives; the steam of whatever dish he’s preparing. It grounds him in the moment and doesn’t let the sensations escape, slip between his fingers and grow into something huge he can’t hold on to. 

Margo singing is another thing that tethers him. At night, they lie in bed together, Eliot’s head in her lap, and she sings; soft little melodies, achingly sweet lullabies, her fingers carding through his hair, twisting gently in his curls, and Eliot can drift off, anchored by her voice and presence. Every so often, he’d join her, their voices filling the space of Margo’s bedroom, covering him like a blanket.

In those moments, Eliot feels like himself again. Feels like he truly is back in his body, back in control, back to himself. 

What makes him most settled, most anchored; makes him feel like he was never even gone, makes all of him, all of his senses, sharpen and focus to a point where Eliot doesn’t think he’s going to lose himself again—

—is when Quentin’s eyes are on him. When Quentin _looks_ at him. When Quentin’s big, beautiful eyes settle on him, and settle Eliot’s soul and body in the process. 

When Quentin looks at him, Eliot can’t _breathe_. When Quentin looks at him, Eliot’s heart _stops_. When Quentin looks at him, Eliot is _whole_. 

Quentin is always across the room, always looking, _never_ touching. Somehow, it’s too much but not enough. Somehow, Quentin’s touch, they found, sets Eliot’s skin alight, and not in a good way. It’s not even a surprise, really, when Eliot thinks about it, how the thing he wants most in the world, is the one he doesn’t get to have.

It was the leading theme in his life before he got possessed and vowed to be braver once he got out; and it’s hilarious, honestly, that it continues in a manner so disastrous he wants to tear at his hair, or rub himself all over Quentin and just _burn_. 

Q, however, has stayed away from him since the third time Eliot had jerked violently at his touch. Eliot hates everything about this, most of all the expression on Q’s face. How do you tell the man you love that you crave him, ache for him, _love_ him when it melts your skin whenever he touches you? How do you tell him, and make him _believe_ you?

Some nights, when they’re all together at the penthouse, eating what Eliot’s cooked, chatting, watching a film; some of those nights, Quentin’s eyes never leave him. Those nights, Eliot goes to bed breathless, aching, yearning. Those nights, the only thing that helps him, are love songs. Margo’s lovely voice envelops him, and Eliot sings, too, at the memory of Q on his mind.

One Wednesday Eliot finds himself alone at the penthouse with Quentin. As soon as their eyes meet across the room, Eliot feels the air become crisper, everything around him melts away but Quentin—Q becomes sharper. 

Slowly, he pads over to where Q is pouring coffee into a cup. He slides it over the countertop in Eliot’s direction before getting another one, to fill it up for himself. He’s always, without exception, so careful not to touch, and Eliot always, without exception, wants to scream out his frustration. 

“Where is everyone?” Eliot asks, curling his hands around the cup. He takes a step closer, Q retreats one.

“The women decided they need a spa day,” Quentin answers with a little shrug and the hint of a fond smile at the corners of his mouth. “Josh is in Fillory, and 23 is—travelling, I guess.”

“And why are you here?” Eliot presses, taking another step, eyes on Q.

Q takes another step back, holding his gaze. “We thought it best if someone stayed here with you.”

Another step closer, another back.

“Why you?” 

Quentin looks taken aback by the question. He doesn’t respond right away. Finally, he says, “Because I was the obvious choice.”

“Yeah?” Eliot feels his skin prickling, something within him perking up. “Why?”

Q stumbles on his next step backwards, mouth parting, as his eyes remain fixed on Eliot. “You probably would be throwing things at Josh ten minutes into being left alone with him, or he’d get you high off your ass. You don’t even know 23, so—me.”

“Margo could’ve stayed.”

Quentin’s flustered. Eliot’s known him long enough to see the way he’s squirming, and it’s _delightful_. Except when Q takes his cup and walks across the room, putting an unreasonable amount of distance between them, mouth a thin line. 

“It’s a girl’s day out, and I don’t need a spa day.”

Eliot takes a sip from his coffee, keeping his eyes on Q the entire time. “I think you do,” he says, tipping the cup down. “Need a spa day.”

“I’m fine.” He’s getting defensive. Good. Maybe Eliot will finally get a genuine reaction out of him.

“You don’t look fine. You look like you’re teetering.”

“Eliot.”

“Quentin.”

Q exhales, an annoyed little huff, tightly coiled, and it breaks Eliot’s heart that he keeps himself locked up so tight all the time, high-strung and worn thin, all at once, all day. What’s even worse is that Eliot can’t touch him, can’t provide him with any comfort, can’t show him what he’s feeling, and words aren’t enough; will _never_ be enough, because Eliot knows Quentin’s mind, knows it won’t accept it unless Eliot makes him surrender. 

Quentin sits down on the edge of the armchair, suddenly defeated. He rubs at his eyes, all fight gone out of him, and he exhales again, deep and long this time. 

“I just want you to be okay,” Q says quietly.

And that’s at the core of everything, isn’t it. Quentin, sweet, lovely, selfless Quentin who wants everyone to be okay, who fights so hard to try and make sure everyone’s safe, but who never stops to check how he himself is doing. 

Eliot crosses the distance between them, sinking down to his knees in front of him. Q freezes up, staring at Eliot with big, uncertain eyes. This isn’t what it was supposed to be like. Eliot didn’t expect it to be easy, never _wanted_ it to be easy, because he’d hurt Q, _badly_ , after all, but it wasn’t supposed to be _impossible_ either. 

“I miss you,” Eliot confesses. Quentin meets his gaze, eyes going soft and sad as he tilts his head.

“El.” It sounds so, so pained. “I miss you, too.”

Eliot raises his hand, wants to touch, the urge so strong despite everything. Except Quentin shies away from it, sinking back into the armchair, and it rips Eliot’s heart into a million shreds.

“El, please,” he pleads, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Eliot drops his hand with a sad smile, watches how Q curls in on himself in an attempt to make himself smaller, to maximize the space between them so Eliot doesn’t run the risk of accidentally touching him. 

It’s a fucking Shakespearean tragedy.

Quentin’s breath comes out in a rush once Eliot gets up and creates distance between them again. It shouldn’t make his heart seize painfully, maybe; maybe it should make him feel treasured and loved that Q is relieved he’s not hurting Eliot; maybe, maybe, maybe.

Eliot picks his coffee cup back up, drains it in one go, and disappears in Margo’s room. Quentin looking at him might make him feel whole, but knowing he won’t touch him, can’t touch him is like drowning on dry land. 

He manages to doze off for a little while, his senses his body not acting up for a change. When Eliot slips back into awareness, it’s dark. Not night time dark, but still not as if it was the middle of the day. Eliot pads to the window, and outside, the sky is a dark grey, looking threatening and thunderous. 

A summer storm. 

He makes his way downstairs, looking for Quentin. There’s no sign of him though, so Eliot sits on the sofa, facing the windows. Something about the outside, as dark and unwelcoming as it appears, makes him feel calm, soothes something in him in a way he can’t put into words. 

Eliot gets up and walks over to the door that leads to the deck—the penthouse has a fucking deck—to step outside. 

The air smells fresh, cool against his skin as it billows around his legs. Eliot senses the gusts curling around his body, tugging playfully at his hair, releasing him again. His lungs are too small for the gulps of air he drinks in, igniting sparks that skip through his body, dancing, tingling, and his mind clears, calms, settles. Something falls into place in him, something that had been rattling around, unfitting, resistant. 

For the first time in two months, Eliot feels like he belongs in his body again; feels _alive_ in a way he hasn’t anymore ever since the Monster had left him. 

He tilts his face up towards the sky, spreading his arms out, just as the first fat raindrops start to fall. It’s pouring not a minute later, and the rain on his skin washes away some of the shame he’s been feeling the last couple of weeks. It’s not gone, not by a long shot; it’s not that easy, but—he can work through it. 

“Eliot!” Quentin’s voice is almost drowned out by the downpour. He comes to an abrupt halt in front of Eliot, squinting against the rain beating in his face. “What the fuck are you doing? Come back inside.”

Q’s hand is halfway to Eliot’s but he stops himself short bare millimeters away. 

Eliot laughs, laughs for the first time in a long time, and when he looks down at Q, there’s an expression of pure wonder on his face. Water is running in rivulets down his face, dripping off the tip of his nose, clumping together his lashes, collecting at the ends of the strands of his hair.

Quentin looks lovely and brilliant, and Eliot _loves_ him. Has loved him for a lifetime, and loves him still, loves him again, loves him always. 

“No.” Eliot takes a step back and finds Q following him. “I want to feel this.”

Q looks at him, utterly bewildered, drenched to the bones already. “We’re in the middle of a storm, and you want to—to feel it?”

Eliot smiles, hopelessly helpless against the adorably incredulous look on Quentin’s face.

“I’m sorry I ran away from you, Q,” Eliot finds himself saying, licking water from his lips. “You—you were my first choice from day one, and I—I couldn’t believe I would be yours, too.”

“Eliot…”

“You’re one of the very few good things in my life,” Eliot continues, surprised at how easy it is to bare his heart; smiles and amends to himself: finds it easy to bare it to _Quentin_. “I was scared I’d inevitably fuck it up somehow, but I—I don’t want to run away from this anymore. I don’t want to run away from _you_.”

He holds out both his hands out to Q, palms up, leaping, really, hoping that’s not too late; hoping, maybe against hope, that Q is right there with him.

Q doesn’t move at all for an agonizing moment, eyes burning as he gazes at Eliot. And then, slowly, gently, he slides his hands into Eliot’s, and it’s—

It burns, it sets his skin aflame, and it feels _wonderful_. Quentin’s skin is warm to his touch, smooth, sweet; it’s everything and more, and Eliot has missed touching him so much that this feels like—it feels as if he’d just done a line of coke. The smile that breaks across his face is huge, matching the one Q is wearing.

Q is smiling, wide and radiant, eyes crinkling at the corners; a smile so wide it shows off his dimples, and Gods, Eliot wants to kiss those dimples.

Eliot lets go of Quentin’s hands, slides them along the sides of his neck instead, pulling, and marvels at how easily Q follows. It makes something fierce and hot spark low in his gut, but that, he decides, is for later. Now, he leans down as Quentin tips his chin up, slowing for a second, thumbs brushing over Q’s cheeks, before he fits his lips against Quentin’s.

Maybe it shouldn’t feel different, kissing Q now than when he kissed him in their lifetime in Fillory. It does, though. It’s different, and it’s not, and it’s so, so good. Q’s lips are warm and soft against his own, pliant and sweet. Eliot could get lost in kissing him. He slides a hand around the back of his neck, and Q makes a soft sound at the back of his throat. 

Eliot kisses him, and kisses him, and relishes in how spine-shatteringly, soul-meltingly marvelous it is to have Quentin back against him, to have him back in his arms, open and wanting; sweet, selfless, brave Q who gives himself over so completely; who trusts Eliot so entirely it makes his head spin. 

Eliot draws back for a moment, brushes a strand of hair out of Q’s face with a soft smile on his lips. “I know I’m probably fulfilling every horrible straight rom-com cliché doing this right now, but—I love you. I need you to know that. I love you.”

Quentin lets out a little laugh, hands coming up to wrap gently around Eliot’s wrists. “I’d say we deserve a terrible rom-com cliché moment,” he replies, arms coming up around Eliot’s shoulders now. “I need you to know, Eliot Waugh, that you are my first choice, too.”

Eliot cracks so utterly and completely open at that, all his armor, all his defenses washing away at Q’s words, and he’s never felt safer.

**Author's Note:**

> I am on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/proofsofconcept), raging about shit.


End file.
